


Wheel of Fortune

by BeveStuscemi



Category: Darkest Dungeon (Video Game)
Genre: Declarations Of Love, Drinking, Friends to Lovers, Kissing, M/M, Mild Gore, Morning Sex, Resolved Sexual Tension, Tarot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-28
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-13 18:40:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29033328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeveStuscemi/pseuds/BeveStuscemi
Summary: The burgeoning relationship of two arcane men, as told through the art of tarot cartography.
Relationships: Jester/Leper (Darkest Dungeon)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 45





	1. IX. The Hermit

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Carpe Natem (Demeanor)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Demeanor/gifts).



_“He stands atop the mountain, accompanied only by the dim glow of his lantern. The staff he wields, strong and finely crafted, cements him to the ground and stabilises him on his journey. But, The Hermit does not travel in search of adventure. The road he seeks is that of his own internal growth._

_The Hermit (IX)_

In truth, Baldwin had not anticipated the journey to be so long.

The stagecoach had departed in the early hours of dawn, where the striking red haze of daybreak had just begun to seep through the troughs and peaks of the jagged cliffs. Now, nightfall was upon them and shadows thickened in the meandering treeline that enveloped the roads.

The route the coachman had taken had been all but scenic. Baldwin was not a naïve man, and he had not been expecting to travel through quaint villages and flourishing meadows, but the overarching bleakness of the roads they traversed was in equal parts sobering and depressing.  
Occasionally, through the layer of grime of the shattered window, Baldwin caught a glimpse of a small village steeped in twilight and encompassed by the surrounding woodland. Though the village appeared far from charming, the sight of it did alleviate Baldwin’s burgeoning fear that the coachman was as disoriented as he was.

The road deteriorates significantly as they ride deeper into the woodland, and the stagecoach rattles and jolts as the wheels snag against loose cobblestone and strewn branches. When the stagecoach halts abruptly in the middle of the road, unease washes over Baldwin and he silently prays to the Gods that he will not be completing the remainder of his journey on foot.

The stagecoach shakes when the coachman descends from the carriage. Baldwin attempts to peer out of the window, but he sees only the void of night and a splintered reflection of his golden mask. The coachman was prudent enough to lock the carriage when they first departed, for fear that local brigands may take interest in the luggage on board, so attempting to step out is a fruitless endeavour.

Instead, Baldwin listens intently and soon locates the coachman’s croaking voice. The man is only a few feet ahead of the carriage, and he is certainly not threatened, given the jubilance in his tone. If anything, he speaks with the same disturbed mania that he greeted Baldwin with hours ago.

Baldwin tucks his shroud behind his ear for better clarity, but soon regrets it when the coachman breaks into a fit of maniacal, cackling laughter. He had thought the coachman possessed a somewhat unstable demeanour, but he had not expected him to succumb to insanity whilst on the road. Baldwin briefly contemplates removing his mask for better vision, but this notion is stopped when the coachman’s lantern illuminates the side of the stagecoach.

The jittering coachman accompanies the light, smiling and twitching as he unlocks the carriage door. Judging by the distance from the road to the village, they still have another mile or so to travel and the unease coursing through Baldwin’s veins amplifies.

The stagecoach door opens, and lamplight irradiates the stagecoach interior, exposing the torn leather seating and settled dust on the flooring. The coachman stands quite giddily on the broken road, and he is just as decrepit as the stagecoach he drives. Baldwin’s eyes fall upon a tattered bindle in the coachman’s grasp and the man gives a toothy, rotten grin.

“There’s two in the casket tonight…heh…heh…”

The coachman’s mouth twitches into a variety of smiles in varying degrees of madness, and he drops the sack at Baldwin’s feet. He gestures into the darkness with a crooked finger and invites whatever hides in the shadow to join them.

Baldwin steels himself, fearing that the coachman is as demented as he looks and is summoning a gang of marauders to descend upon them. His broadsword lies within its sheath on the compartment above the carriage, but perhaps his illness will be enough of a deterrent to prevent larceny.

So, he waits with bated breath.

Miscreants do not advance on him. Rather, a singular man clad in harlequin attire emerges from the darkness and into the coachman’s searing light. The lantern’s intensity causes the man to squint slightly, and he is taken aback when he notices the large figure sitting in the carriage.

“Well,” the man says with his voice cordial, “I wasn’t expecting company for this little trip.”

The tension in Baldwin’s body subsides. He is far from the pinnacle of strength he used to be, but he believes he is still formidable enough to discourage this willowy man from attempting anything.

“Neither was I.” He responds.

The coachman explodes into another bout of uncontrollable laughter, and the man shoots Baldwin an unsettled glance before he hastily joins him in the carriage.

“Good Lord!” The man whispers when the door is shut, “Is he always like that?”

“He had bouts of hysteria throughout the journey.” Baldwin replies solemnly, and the other man grits his teeth.

“Gods help us both then.”

The stagecoach quakes once more when the coachman returns to his seat. The carriage jerks forward and the wheels begin to turn on the overgrown road, pulled by two sickly horses.

The man opposite Baldwin reaches for his bindle but stops halfway and smiles at him.

“Apologies, friend! I do have _some_ manners, my name is Sarmenti.”

His statement is received by a curt nod.

“Mine is Baldwin.”

Sarmenti extends his arm and stretches out his hand, an invitation for a formal introduction. Layers of bandage, cloth and leather protect Sarmenti from Baldwin’s affliction, but the latter man cannot suppress the slight feeling of guilt when he accepts the handshake. Thankfully, Sarmenti does not register the underlying anxiety and he makes himself comfortable on otherwise uncomfortable leather.

“I have a mask as well.” Sarmenti says, idly pointing at Baldwin’s golden visage.

From beneath the mask, Baldwin furrows the remnants of his brows. The lack of light makes inspection quite difficult, but from what he can see, Sarmenti does not appear to have any flaws or malformities that would warrant hiding his face. If anything, Baldwin considers him rather handsome in his own unique way, though he berates himself for thinking it.

Sarmenti’s voice pulls him from his thoughts.

“Yours is metal, I take it?”

“Hmm? Oh yes, you are correct.” Baldwin replies.

He means to inform Sarmenti that his mask is pure welded gold, but it seems ungracious given the luxury of the material. From what he can gather, Sarmenti does not seem to be in the most fortunate financial condition, if his patchworked clothes are of any indication.

The smaller man returns to retrieving his bindle, pulling an exquisitely crafted lute from the rags. He examines it for damage and exhales in relief when it does not appear to be broken.

“I thought I heard a string break when that bumbling fool threw my sack in here.”

Sarmenti dances his fingers over the strings and gives the lute an experimental strum, soon transforming it into a gentle riff. The sound is of a folkish quality and rings quite beautifully, contrasted by the filth and decay of the stagecoach. 

“Still in working order unfortunately, you poor bastards won’t escape my music.” Sarmenti declares happily before returning the lute to the bag.

“Are you headed to the Hamlet?”

“I am,” comes the response, “Heard a rumour that some silly little lordling had returned home and needed help purging the land, or something along those lines.”

Now, Baldwin’s curiosity is piqued. He cannot recall the exact words on the faded hiring parchment, but he can recollect that it did call for individuals trained in the arts of battle, bloodshed, and medical support. Sarmenti does not have the build of frontline cavalrymen, but it would not be too difficult to envision him having talents in the realm of archery, given his stature.

“I presume you have battle experience then?” Baldwin inquires.

Sarmenti snorts as though the suggestion is nothing short of preposterous. His eyes regard Baldwin, and for the most fleeting of moments, they gleam with a morose sentiment. The expression is something dark, something dangerous and Baldwin does not comment on it when it fades.

“I know my way around a blade, let’s settle on that.”

The sullen pitch of Sarmenti’s voice does not warrant elaboration, whether Baldwin was keen to pry or not.

"I am a jester by trade though,” he continues, “Yourself?”

“I was a…”

_King._

“…solider.”

“A-ha! I thought as much, given your size.”

Sarmenti brightens considerably. He grins and stares up to Baldwin with a knowing glint in his eye. There is a scar that curls around an eye socket and extends into the deep auburn of his hair. Sarmenti is slim and rather unassuming, but Baldwin wagers that he is nobody’s fool, official occupation aside. He is also unashamed as he scrutinises Baldwin’s frame as though the man is a spectacle for critique, eyes trailing over each jut and dip of an imposing silhouette.

“They must have fed you well in the barracks. You’re built like a stone shithouse.”

Admittedly, Baldwin is ignorant of this particular epithet but hopefully presumes it is one of positive connotation, despite the vulgarity. It is perhaps the closest thing he has had to a compliment in years.

Any further thought on the comment ceases when the horsewhip cracks thrice into the frigid night air, followed by a cacophony of whooping laughter. The pace of the horses does not increase, and Baldwin does not wish to ponder what exactly the coachman is doing mere inches above them. 

“It appears this Heir does not concern himself with just who he hires.” He says, with a gloved finger pointing to the roof of the carriage.

Both men stare upwards, simultaneously grimacing at the sight of the thick, black mould that coats the damp ceiling.

Sarmenti gives a bitter laugh as Baldwin recoils.

“If this is the type of hospitality we’re expecting, I suppose we should pray that we die on the road.”

Immediately, Baldwin responds: “It would at least be a reprieve from the lunatic driving us.”

A long snort echoes in the carriage, swiftly followed by a bout of hysterical laughter. Baldwin watches in fascination as Sarmenti continues to laugh and rock on the rotting leather, tears forming at the corners of his eyes. There was no humour in his words as far as he could remember, and Baldwin’s disposition is far too dour to attempt comedy. And yet, Sarmenti howls as though Baldwin is the one dressed in jester’s garb.

Sarmenti dabs at his eyes with a mildewed sleeve, still tittering in the aftermath of the unintentional joke.

“Gods, you make _me_ look cheerful! And I had a reputation of being a cynical bastard.”

The tears are sufficiently wiped from his face, and Sarmenti straightens back into his seat with a slight smile tugging at his mouth.

“You know, I quite like you, Baldwin. You’re the first person I’ve met in a long while who I don’t want to throttle.”

“Not particularly high praise, but I will accept it,” Baldwin replies, his cold mask betraying the strange sensation of gratitude that creeps over him. It is a peculiar feeling, and one borne from a lifetime worth of confinement and internalised hatred. 

“I like you too, Sarmenti.”

The shorter man opens his mouth to respond but the coachman suddenly knocks on the carriage roof and startles them both.

“The hearse to the tomb, the carriage to our home!” The coachman cries.

The carriage tilts as it curves around a serpentine stretch of road, causing both men to grunt as they are thrown against the panelling. The Hamlet soon manifests on either side of the stagecoach; rows of rotting wooden buildings and gnarled trees marred by a festering fungus. Each window passed houses a fire, and the Hamlet appears alight in a sea of blazing embers.

The finery of court and the sweet breeze of the maritime air are now but distant memories, for this shambling village belongs to them and they belong to it.

Baldwin sighs.

“One journey ends, another begins.”

Sarmenti hums as he collects his bindle and he places it over his shoulder when the stagecoach starts to slow along a muddied dirt path.

He turns to Baldwin.

“If everyone else here turns out to be as mad as our coachman, try not to die before me. I want at least one person with me who isn’t a complete fruitcake.”

Baldwin is in no position to form any promises or guarantees. But a part of him, the last fragment of a friendless man who once ruled an empire, decides that he is not as eager to die as previously thought.

He extends his arm, mirroring their initial introduction.

“I will shake on the promise of an alliance between us.”

A grin spreads over Sarmenti’s scarred lips and he accepts the hand.

“Deal, friend. Now," Sarmenti pauses, curiously enthusiastic, "Let’s go find out what we’re going to be butchering.”


	2. XIII. Death

_“Oblivion comes in golden armour and riding a pale horse. It is easy to fear Death, to fear the unknown, the macabre and the embracing of one’s mortality. However, Death is the alpha and omega. Death takes life but gives birth. Death sheds the mask of the old and ushers in the new.”_

_Death (XIII)_

Whilst the integration into the Hamlet had been turbulent, Baldwin could admit that his new life was not as abhorrent as he had been expecting. While his compatriots were certainly of a lower, crasser social milieu, Baldwin could not help but divulge that they were oddly charming, if crude and occasionally belligerent. 

As anticipated, Baldwin had very little in common with the men and women who he resided with. He was a man enamoured of books and literature, an erudite scholar equally educated in prose and in warfare. With the exception of a couple of bounty warrants and occult tomes in foreign tongues, Baldwin had yet to see most of his compatriots read, and he had doubts regarding the literacy of some. By this virtue, most of the Hamlet’s roster entertained themselves not through the reading of books and poetry, but through revelry and drink. 

However, Baldwin often wondered how many of them caroused for simple pleasure, and how many did so to forget the horrors outside of the Hamlet’s sanctuary.

But, despite the difference in their backgrounds, Baldwin also appreciated the conscientious effort of his compatriots when it came to prying him from his quarters and into the tavern, even if it was unwanted. Following an expedition, it was not a rare occurrence to find Dismas or William outside his door and inviting him out for a drink. Even Boudica, who had as much contempt for gender segregation as she did for everything else, would bombard her way through the males’ corridor and demand that the ‘ _Gold-Man drink with her.’_ Baldwin did not particularly care for alcohol, but it did feel nice to be sought after, even if he personally did not consider himself much company. 

Of course, none are as persistent in securing Baldwin’s company in the alehouse as the man who he boards his room with. So, on an evening where the streets are tinted orange in the culmination of sundown, Sarmenti commences his habitual badgering.

“We ought to go out tonight.” 

Baldwin ceases his writing and faces up towards Sarmenti, who peers down from the top of the bunk like an enlivened gargoyle. Their time together has still been relatively short, but Baldwin believes that they have lived together long enough for him to have a firm enough grasp of Sarmenti’s character; the man is completely and utterly restless. Sarmenti possesses an incessant abundance of energy, and is never satiated unless he is engaging in some type of activity that comprises music, madness or violence.

Sometimes all three.

Baldwin retracts his stare and dips his quill back into the inkpot to resume his prose. 

“Feel free to go without me, I would like to stay here.”

Sarmenti groans, a noise Baldwin is now very accustomed to. The groans are long, dramatic and deliberately obnoxious, and Baldwin is steadfast in his resistance to them.

“Lambs bleat, Sarmenti. Not men.” 

“Oh, save your patronising snark for your parchment!” Sarmenti retorts as he climbs down the dilapidated ladder that barely holds their bed frame together. 

He makes his way over to Baldwin in swift strides, his bells ringing furiously as each foot hits the cracked stone flooring. When he reaches the desk, Sarmenti peers over Baldwin’s broad shoulder and scrunches his face in disbelief when he reads a line of prose the larger man attempts to conceal. 

“ _‘The golden sun sinking beneath the horizon, the void of night that claims it… petals must fall,’_ ” Sarmenti reads aloud, hardly disguising his exasperation, “Do you enjoy making yourself miserable, Baldwin?”

Baldwin scoffs and gathers his literature, ordering it and then placing it into one of the drawers of the desk. His mask obscures most of his face, but there is a definite vexed scowl visible from beneath the metal. 

“No, Sarmenti. I do not _enjoy_ making myself miserable, I find solace in my prose and in contemplation. I do hope that is fine with you.”

There is a sarcastic edge to Baldwin’s voice, but Sarmenti does not shy away from it. 

“Oh, please! If you’re so keen on punishing yourself you should go to the Penance Hall with that idiot in the rags.” 

Baldwin inwardly groans. There is much in life that he is able to tolerate, but comparisons to the masochist with the flail is not one of them. If Baldwin thought _himself_ committed to the Light, Damien was nothing short of unhinged in his devotion. There was also an overwhelming sense of bitterness whenever Baldwin thought about the man, for if he was fortunate enough to possess healthy skin, he certainly would not be mangling it in bouts of religious delusion. 

One drink would not hurt, if it put an end to any more comparisons _and_ to Sarmenti’s harrying.

“One drink, Sarmenti.” He relents. 

The Jester grins in triumph. 

“Don’t forget your coin purse,” Sarmenti says as Baldwin starts to get up from the seat. The Jester’s grin quickly widens. 

“Oh, and bring your poetry too! The barkeep can read it aloud when he needs people to leave.”

“Very droll.” Baldwin mutters, and the two men leave their room and make for the tavern. 

The Hamlet’s tavern is located near the entrance to the village, decorated by wooden panels which curve and collide with one another in a manner too incompetant to be the work of skilled tradesmen. The air inside is thick with a grey haze of smoke, and the scent of roasting pork permeates within the alehouse. For this, Baldwin is grateful as the overwhelming aroma of meat masks the worst of the decay emanating through his bandages.

Patrons lounge about the tables, their chipped flagons full of murky ale and their fingers either twitching nervously over games of cards, or enthusiastically tracing the hemline of a brothel girl’s skirt. There are raucous shouts of laughter and excitement, and the occasional loud babblings of incoherent intoxication.

In the same vein that the possession of wealth and unlimited power is an enigma to the peasant, the act of public drinking is a new experience to Baldwin. One drink had swiftly turned into five, owing to Sarmenti’s unusual preference of buying multiple drinks at once and his insistence on finishing them. The ale served was not of a high quality, but was counterbalanced by sheer potency. By the third tankard, most of the tavern had washed away into a sea of noise and colour, and the only things Baldwin could discern were his own hands, his tankard and Sarmenti. 

The Jester was equally inebriated. 

“Baldwin!” He slurs, tapping his finger roughly against the table, “Have you heard of the _Hangman’s Ballad?_ It’s about death, you’ll probably like it.” 

Sarmenti’s pale face swirls in Baldwin’s vision, the mop of red hair dancing like flames. Baldwin drives his own finger into the rotten wood of the table in response.

“I have other interests besides death, you know.” 

Sarmenti laughs. “Oh yes, I forgot. Praying, moping, faffing with your bandages…”

“I do not faff! Besides I am in the tavern, aren’t I?” 

The Jester hums, reaching for his drink. “That is true. You’re enjoying yourself then?” 

“It has been a nice evening,” Baldwin agrees earnestly, “Thank you.”

“Bah, no need for any thanks. I was just sick of watching you act like a recluse when we could be miserable together.” 

The final word echoes in Baldwin’s mind, sending a flush of warmth over his face that can no longer be attributed to alcohol. The word is decidedly impersonal, carrying no more motive or meaning than any other word uttered before it. And yet, the word latches itself upon his psyche, enflaming every dream of intimacy that he had ever dared hope for. 

There is irony in finding comfort amid the entropy. 

“You make me feel normal.” He says suddenly, ale having taken his tongue.

Sarmenti looks up from his tankard, eyebrows knitted together in surprise. 

“I do?” 

“You do,” Baldwin lowers his voice, for fear the last remaining patrons of the tavern may overhear, “You treat me as you would anyone else. You mock me, throw quips, use my things when you think I’m not looking—”

“That cup belonged to both of us!”

Baldwin raises a hand and silences further protest.

“Exactly! You are the only person I know who would use anything I touch,”

A heavy pause hangs in the air, and Baldwin continues.

“I feel as though I am more than my illness when I’m with you.” 

Sarmenti’s sharp, angular features soften for a moment. A small, embarrassed smile manifests on an otherwise sombre expression. 

“Don’t talk so bloody wet,” Sarmenti chides, “We’re friends. It’s our responsibility to ground each other, even if we just spout shite half the time.”

Baldwin chuckles to himself. This will likely be the most sentimental he will ever render Sarmenti, as the man is far too candid for the saccharine.

“Then I’m fortunate to have you as one.”

Sarmenti’s smile deepens, creasing the corners of his heavy eyes. It is one of his more genuine smiles, one not brought forth from violence or excitement.

“Yeah, you too, Baldwin.”

The two men sit in a comfortable silence, broken only by the slight flowing of their ale and quiet chatter from the tables around them. The air, smoky and thick as it is, is peaceful and serene. If they were to close their eyes for long enough, it would not be too difficult to imagine themselves elsewhere, perhaps in a coastal village surrounded by orange gardens. Amidst the tranquillity, there are a few times where Baldwin catches Sarmenti staring at him, chewing at the inside of his mouth as though wrestling with his conscience. 

And eventually, Sarmenti caves into simmering curiosity. 

“You can take your mask off, you know.”

The blissful expression on Baldwin’s face falters, hidden beneath sheet gold and bronze fastenings. 

Fantasy is a kind reprieve, but his reality is inescapable. Sarmenti may not treat him like an invalid now, but he most certainly will when he sees his face.

“I am not pleasant to look at, Sarmenti. I’d rather you not see.”

“I’m not anything to write home about either,” the Jester says, “I just want to know what you look like, since we’re friends.”

The final word strikes through Baldwin like an executioner’s bullet. He owes this man the privilege of knowing just who he sits with, even though it will cost Baldwin his own shattered pride. In the depths of his soul, Baldwin knows that he was postponing the inevitable, so it is best that Sarmenti is shown on his own terms. 

Cautiously, Baldwin tilts his mask to one side, shielding his face from the oblivious patrons enjoying their last round of ale. Sarmenti’s mouth twitches when he stares into Baldwin’s scarred face, eyes focussing intently on the centre in particular. An array of talented physicians had attempted to save the nose in the early stages of leprosy, but there is only so much one can do when necrosis has already settled and ravaged. The rest of his skin is too mottled and blemished to grow facial hair, save for two short, sparse eyebrows above deep-set eyes; one brown, the other a pale blue. 

Sarmenti lies back into his chair, deathly silent. For once, it appears as though he is thinking before he rattles off. 

“Despite the...” He begins, gesturing to his own bent nose, “I think you look decent enough.”

“I am the one with poor eyesight, not you. Cease your flattery.” Baldwin curtly replies, securing the mask to his wretched face.

“That wasn’t a compliment, that was a statement. You’re a poet, aren’t you? Those soppy fools are always mithering about _beautiful eyes_ and _lovely smiles_. You have two eyes, and your teeth and lips are still in good condition from what I can tell. Therefore, you are decent enough.” 

Baldwin stammers out: “My nose—”

“Good Lord! Who cares about a nose?” Sarmenti cries, and a few people turn to stare, “I certainly don’t, mine’s been broken _four_ different times by _four_ different people.”

Baldwin quietens him, waving his hand furiously to settle the other man. When Sarmenti is sufficiently calmed, and the patrons return to their drink, Baldwin lowers his own voice again.

“Do I really not disgust you?” He whispers with his tone bordering incredulous.

Sarmenti shakes his head, thick strands of auburn swaying as he does so.

“No. Look, we’re friends. Even if you looked like those swine, you wouldn’t disgust me,” Sarmenti pauses, heavy eyes contemplative. 

“Leprosy can’t do any worse than what life has done to the Caretaker.”

Baldwin does laugh at this, something deep and genuine that rumbles up from his chest. He is not convinced that the jest was completely humorous, but relief forces the laughter out regardless.

“Thank you for your unrelenting honesty in all aspects of my life, Sarmenti.”

“Yes, yes, you’re welcome, Leper. Now,” Sarmenti raises his tankard, a half smile on his lips, “Finish your drink, I want you drunk enough to give me some bloody poetry about _my_ face.”

At this, Baldwin smiles. 

Alcohol is most unnecessary for the prose he could write about Sarmenti.


	3. XVI. The Tower

_“The Tower appears impregnable, but rugged stone walls and mountainous terrain hide a weak foundation. White lightning strikes the tower, bringing an end to the illusion of indestructibility. From the highest window, two figures fall into the flames of chaos. It is there where they will soon find revelation.”_

_The Tower (XVI)_

They sprint along the dirt path, brambles snagging at their ankles and dense midnight fog obscuring the tree roots which long to ensnare them. Night is eternal in the festering depths of the Weald, and the soft glow of moonlight is absorbed and devoured by a canopy of rotting leaves and twisted branches. A cold, cruel gust of wind surges down the path, and the trees erupt into a cacophony of violent rustling and discordant creaking. Most worrying is the torch in Tardif’s hand and it flickers furiously in the howling gale. 

“Shit!” He yells, and he turns on his heel to protect the dying embers from extinguishing further. 

The flame reinvigorates under his protection, but the light provided is still dim and faltering. Tardif raises the torch higher, and his companions manifest from the darkness, each breathless and panting. Missandei emerges first, her jaw set and hands fumbling with a plethora of medical supplies: bandages, anti-venom and the dreaded suture kit. 

Baldwin appears next, his cuirass stained crimson and the bandages on his forearms soaked in blood. Draped over him is Sarmenti, whose head hangs loosely from his shoulders and whose abdomen is sickeningly red and wet. Sarmenti’s face is hidden beneath his ivory visage, but the rapid heaving of his chest and grunts of pain echoing through the mask inform the others that not only is he alive, he is still conscious. 

Baldwin prays that shock impedes the worst of the agony.

Missandei curses at the sight and shouts to Tardif: “How much further?” 

“Trees are thinnin’. Clearing’s just ahead now!” He calls back, “I’ll go on ahead and start the fire!” 

Missandei trails after him, racing towards an expanse of dry mound surrounded by knotted trees and decaying stumps. She disappears into the darkness once again, and Baldwin tightens his grip on Sarmenti’s hand, steadying him. 

“Come on, Sarmenti,” he grunts, pulling the man back to his feet, “Just a little further now.”

The Jester shakes, digging his feet into the ground to anchor himself. The front of his shoes are completely destroyed and lie in tatters, torn from when he collapsed and had to be physically dragged to safety. He takes one tentative step forward and hisses, fingers grasping at the fastenings of Baldwin’s armour. 

“Gods! I feel like my stomach is on fire!” 

“It’s the bullet fragment, we need to move so we can extract it.” 

Thin fingers trace the bullet wound embedded in his abdomen, and Sarmenti brings his hand to his face, hoping that the pain is phantom and not a reality. Instead, he is greeted by glistening blood dripping through his fingers, trailing down from his palm and to his wrist. He attempts to laugh, but his knees buckle at the sight. 

“Do you need me to carry you?” Baldwin quickly asks, catching the man before his knees collide with the mud. 

“No, I’ll manage,” Sarmenti replies in a shaking voice, “I’m a dying fool, not a fair maiden. Though I suppose I do bleed like one.” 

“You are _neither_.” Baldwin replies, grabbing the man’s waist and pulling him closer. 

Sarmenti swallows thickly, head lolling against Baldwin’s shoulder. The warmth of the other man is comforting amid the searing pain, and Sarmenti briefly considers becoming religious to thank the Light for small mercies. 

“Right,” he says through gritted teeth, “Let’s move.”

The camp is barely a hundred feet away, but each step causes pain to shoot upwards from Sarmenti’s abdomen, sending shockwaves down his bending legs and then up through his arms. The pain is indescribable, but Sarmenti believes that it is comparable to being seared with a red hot poker though even that fate is much preferable, if only by familiarity. 

By the time Baldwin hauls him to the camp, blood has started to pool at the front of his trousers and seeps through the cloth in long, red rivulets. Even as the agony envelops him, Sarmenti’s stomach drops when he notices Tardif sterilising tweezers on the campfire, and Missandei preparing an impromptu medical bay near one of the tree stumps. 

“Baldwin,” Sarmenti rasps, sweaty hands clinging onto Baldwin’s gloves for dear life, “I think tonight might be my final performance out here.”

“You will not _die,_ Sarmenti. We’ll make sure of it.” There is authority in the Leper’s voice, unshakable confidence and firm resolve. 

Sarmenti almost believes him, but the vast amount of blood smearing his armour tells another tale. To be taken to merciful oblivion by a bullet intended for a moribund man, Sarmenti cannot decipher if this fate is ironic, tragic or hilarious. 

The Jester watches Baldwin as he is placed onto a bed of rotting leaves and mildewed blankets. When his back lies flat against the flaxen material, he reaches out and grabs the Leper’s arm.

“Hey, Baldwin. You kept your promise.” 

Baldwin kneels next to him, mouth in a strained line and eyes fixated on the bleeding wound trickling into the makeshift bed. He returns his gaze to Sarmenti. 

“What promise?” 

“I asked you not to die before me when we first met, and you didn’t. Thanks for that.” 

Baldwin’s breath hitches in his throat. He grabs Sarmenti’s face with his hands, palms flat against ivory while Sarmenti drives his own fingers into the shroud covering Baldwin’s shoulders. There is a slight chink of ivory against gold, and the top of their masks rest against one another. 

“Stop speaking like this,” Baldwin whispers, “We came here together and we will leave here together. Understood?” 

Sarmenti coughs from under his mask, and Baldwin removes it. The Jester looks awful; sick, weak and so unlike his normal spirited self. There is a sheen of sweat on his pallid forehead and beads of perspiration form at his hairline, visible from beneath a shabby hat. Regrettably, Baldwin had never truly stopped to appreciate the freckles that adorned the man’s cheeks and nose. Against the ashen hue of his skin, they appear in shades bronze and amber, disappearing into the shadowed hollows of his cheeks and streaks of smeared blood.

Even on death’s door, Baldwin finds him breathtakingly beautiful. 

Missandei glances up from the foot of the bed, her smile sympathetic but her eyes determined. She calls over to Tardif, who rises from the campfire and hands her the sterilised tweezers. 

“You’ll be sound, mate.” He grunts at Sarmenti. He leaves quietly, and the only sound audible is that of Sarmenti’s gasping and Missandei’s faint appraisal of her tools. She selects the scalpel first.

“All wounds are treatable,” Missandei states, “Even nasty ones like this.”

Panic rises in Sarmenti’s gut, the dull gleam of the instrument shining menacingly in the firelight. Missandei places a hand on his stomach, cutting away at the sodden cloth and peeling back the fabric to expose scarred skin wrought red by its own blood. Baldwin begins to retreat to give the Arbalest room to commence her work, but Sarmenti grabs his arm and pulls him back.

“Stay with me, you can read me your poems and bore me to death instead,” Sarmenti says, trying to laugh but instead groaning when each rise of his chest causes the pain in his abdomen to explode. He truly cannot abide how solemn he sounds, and he opts for more of his regimen black humour: “I also need someone to make sure Tardif doesn’t eat me if I pass out.”

Baldwin smiles and cusps the side of Sarmenti’s face, stymieing some of the worry that claims otherwise handsome features. 

“I’m here for you, friend.”

—

Sarmenti is pulled from his slumber in increments, the few seconds of consciousness gifting him with confused fragments of recollection. The first time he wakes, he smells blood and his mind immediately connotes the metallic scent to his cell beneath the court. The second time, Sarmenti can just about decipher the foliage that hangs in the trees, and he wonders if he is dead and is staring at the undergrowth coating his grave. 

The third time, however, Sarmenti hears the off-rhythm snoring from somewhere nearby and he fights the unconsciousness so desperate to take him. He attempts to roll onto his side, grimacing when piercing pain shoots upwards from his abdomen. Sarmenti collapses back into his bed, hands reaching for his stomach. He does not come into contact with soft, patchwork fabric, but rather rough bandages wrapped tight around his torso. 

His amnesia soon leaves, and the pain in his stomach amplifies when the memory of how it came to be resurfaces. Worse still, his previous actions come to light: his frightened laughing, poor attempts at jokes and the way he asked Baldwin not to leave him. The memory is uncomfortable and borders pathetic, and Sarmenti almost wishes the bullet had killed him to save him from the embarrassing recollection. 

Sarmenti furrows his brows and recoils at himself in shame, hiding his face with hands still caked in dried blood. A third hand joins his own, covering most of his forehead and pushing his hair from his face. A familiar voice soon follows.

“Sarmenti.”

“Baldwin.” He replies, voice raspy and mumbled from under his hands. Baldwin’s hands, strong and large, are surprisingly gentle against his face.

“My hands are not very reliable in terms of gauging a fever, but I thought you would appreciate the sentiment at least.” 

Sarmenti cannot quite tell if the other man is joking or not. Even at their initial meeting, the man’s wit is dry and monotonous, leaving one to ponder if he is attempting humour or simply stating the obvious. 

“I’ve been shot in the stomach, stitched up in a forest, and now I’m being nursemaided by a leper. Good Lord, I live a strange life.” 

Baldwin retracts his hand from Sarmenti’s forehead. It is quickly grabbed and placed back down.

“I didn’t say stop, you fool. My head is _killing_ me.”

Baldwin tuts as though caving into a petulant child, and returns to stroking Sarmenti’s forehead with bandaged fingers. He cannot feel his skin, but the visual of having Sarmenti surrender to his touch is enough. Especially when the man beneath him is the furthest thing from averse.

Despite the tumult that brought them here, Baldwin finds the scene comforting and it compels him to delve deeper. 

_Too deep._

“Sarmenti, I need to ask you something.”

“Hmm, what?”

Baldwin swallows. There is always an air on nonchalance with Sarmenti, but the gravity of his actions outweigh the indifference he attempts to attach to them. 

Baldwin curls a tuft of hair between two fingers.

“That bullet you took, it was on course for me, wasn’t it? Missandei told me as such before she and Tardif fell asleep.” 

Sarmenti stiffens in Baldwin’s grasp; the uncomfortable, unpleasant feelings from earlier flooding his senses once again. There is no purpose in lying to him, as Baldwin is far too introspective for his own good and will only mull over every action until it drives them both to uncertain insanity. 

He relents his pride. 

“It was.” 

Baldwin exhales heavily, fingers still entwined in Sarmenti’s hair. He pauses for a moment, as though piecing together an elaborate paradox, but the answer evades him.

“Why did you do it?”

“Ha, a good question. I can have my moments of heroism, fleeting and arbitrary as they are,”

Sarmenti scratches at his nose, scraping away dried blood like the question is nothing of major importance. In truth, the question attacks his very core, the core which substitutes jokes and jibes for meaningful dialogue. He finishes his sentence:

“Perhaps it was hubris. Perhaps it was madness... likely a mixture of the two.”

“I see. Thank you,” Baldwin replies, voice tinted with a tone of underlying disappointment, “We should rest, we depart in the morning.”

With that, Baldwin removes his hand and shuffles himself away from the other man. He settles near a neighbouring stump, close enough to aid Sarmenti in the event of an ambush, but far away enough so that they do not share a sleeping space. 

_“Any foolish notion of mutual fondness must be nipped in the bud tomorrow.”_ Baldwin thinks as he removes his cuirass and mask, furious with himself for even hoping for it.

His strict adhering to the Light has waned considerably in his twelve months at the Hamlet, but he decides that a pilgrimage to the sanctuary of the Abbey will relieve him of these shameless, saccharine fantasies, no matter how innocent they are. 

Baldwin lies back and stares up to the trees, waiting for sleep to have him.

“Be sure to visit me when I’m in the Sanitarium,” Sarmenti mutters after a few minutes pass, drifting into his own slumber, “I won’t have those old crones massage my head with their thin, crooked fingers.”

Without thinking, Baldwin gives a small, pleased huff.

“Are a leper’s hands truly that preferable to a physician’s?”

“Not any leper’s hands. Yours specifically,” the Jester asserts, nestling into the blankets, exhaustion taking him once more.

“I like you Baldwin. I like you a lot.” He finishes quietly, before falling silent altogether. 

Every foolish notion ever conceived abruptly returns, and the stars that hide behind the corroding leaves and languishing trees seem to shine so much brighter. 

The Abbey can wait, for now. 


	4. O. The Fool

_“He stands upon the edge of the precipice, high above the chasm. And yet, The Fool does not fear. The unknown does not perturb him, for he seeks his new adventure with zeal and with self-assurance. The Fool does not ponder his actions, nor does he doubt them. The wheel rolls on, and The Fool rolls with it.”_

_The Fool (O)_

Like all buildings within the Hamlet, the Sanitarium has a reputation that precedes it. Naturally, this is a reputation soaked in blood and shrouded with tales of medical incompetence and torture masquerading as relief. The infamy of the Sanitarium had only mounted as the barracks filled and anxieties rose, and Sarmenti could recall numerous occasions where his comrades had to be physically dragged to the building to receive treatment. 

In hindsight, Sarmenti considered them all to be incredibly melodramatic. 

Granted, the Sanitarium is not a pleasant building and the reputation it has amassed is not entirely unwarranted. There is a constant scent of rot that penetrates the dank hallways, sometimes attributed to the vast amount of mould coating the cells, and at other times due to the patients that occupy them. The general quality of food within the Hamlet is best described as ‘dubious’, but the food served at the Sanitarium is quite forthcoming in its dreadfulness and usually consists of gelatinous, grey gruel and pieces of pinguid meat of mysterious origin.

However, the most sinister aspect of the Sanitarium are the caregivers. Sarmenti had once inquired about the finer points of battlefield medicine to Baldwin, who had then divulged to him that nurses often fall into two categories: ‘comfort’ and ‘battle’. Comfort nurses were usually young women trained to tend minor wounds, their main prowess being song, dance and affability to wounded soldiers. On the other hand, battle nurses were older, harder women who could amputate limbs without so much as a second thought.

Needless to say, the Sanitarium’s nurses fall into the second category. 

Yet, despite the persistent damp, awful food and questionable attendants, Sarmenti found himself to be enjoying his tenure at the Sanitarium for numerous reasons. For one, the Heir had signed paperwork excluding him from expeditions until his wound had healed, giving the Jester leisure time no longer tainted by the prospect of being called to service. Secondly, Sarmenti’s facilities were his and his alone, though he certainly did miss his habitual procuring of Baldwin’s belongings.

But, to Sarmenti, the greatest feature of the Sanitarium was the commissary. 

The commissary list typically travelled along the cells once a week, allowing each patient to write down items or belongings they wanted to be sent in from outside the Sanitarium. These items were usually comfort items such as extra blankets or ale disguised in large perfume bottles. Of course, some of the more brazen patients requested gold or jewellery, and these requests were occasionally approved if their wounds were severe and if the Heir’s conscience lay heavy upon him. In the case of Sarmenti, his commissary list was sent to one specific person. 

Sarmenti did not consider himself overly demanding, and his commissary list consisted only of three items: his lute, which he insisted was of paramount importance in maintaining his sanity; some whiskey, and anything that did not taste like gruel. Within days, Sarmenti’s tenure within the hospital was improved by the company of his lute, alcohol and a trio of rich buns. Given the scarcity of sugar within the Hamlet, the sweet buns were no doubt paid for with an absurd amount of gold. Baldwin had also taken the time to write ‘ _Get Well Soon_ ’ in neat calligraphy on a piece of parchment atop the box which housed them, and the card was quickly placed on the table next to the bed. 

As much as Sarmenti enjoyed his newfound freedom from expeditions, he readily admitted that he did feel lonely. He missed Baldwin most on quiet nights, where the Sanitarium had descended into nocturnal silence and where there was no snoring or hushed conversation to keep him awake. Baldwin had been a constant aspect of Sarmenti’s life during their year in the Hamlet and his absence, regardless of how short it was, felt strangely foreign. And contrary to what Baldwin may have believed, the whiskey served more as a pastime than a cure for wound related pains, much to the caregivers’ exasperation. 

_“Hangman, Hangman, slack your rope awhile._ _  
_ _I think I see my dear old father passing by the stile.”_

The strings of his lute vibrate with each practiced strum, filling an otherwise silent cell with reverberating music, escaping from under the door and echoing down the corridor. The melody is one that had been ingrained into him at an early age, the song a staple in taverns and market campfires. Sarmenti plays it perfectly, wishing he had an audience to enjoy it. His singing is not up to its usual standard due to the small intake of whiskey, but it provides him with enough liquid courage to challenge whatever caregiver will unlock his door to reprimand him for the crime of enjoying himself. 

When Sarmenti hears the thundering of footsteps down the hall, he grins and sings louder.

 _“Have you any silver? Perhaps a little gold?_  
_Or will you see me swing, dear father?_ _  
My body still and cold.”_

The metal key scrapes against the lock, and his door is suddenly pushed open, revealing an irate Caregiver clutching a selection of papers. 

“Are we enjoying ourselves?”

“Yes, I am! Thank you for asking,” Sarmenti halts his song to nod at the Caregiver, “I’ve had quite a splendid week, actually. I was sent three buns, all of which were delicious; I was going to offer you one, but I didn’t want you to ruin your figure.”

The Caregiver’s lips purse into a thin line and she regards the Jester with utmost contempt.

“Enjoy your last few minutes in this cell, fool. You’re being discharged.” She waves the papers in her hand, enjoying the sudden look of shock on the Jester’s face. 

“Discharged? I believe I’m due another week here!”

The Caregiver scoffs. 

“Judging by how jovial you are, I’d say you’re no longer in pain. Plus, your bullet wound is healing a lot faster than anticipated, though I’m still recommending you stay out of expeditions for another week or so.”

The last statement causes a flood of relief to wash over Sarmenti, though he still fights for his cell, just in case. 

“Well, what about my treatment? You’ve called me an irritating fool on most of your visits, surely a _fool_ like myself cannot dress my own wound?”

“By the Light, it’s a bandage not surgery! Besides, we’ve sent for your Leper friend to come collect you, I’m sure he’ll educate you in the intricate art of bandage wrapping.” 

Sarmenti brightens considerably. 

“Baldwin’s coming?”

“Who else would collect you? The Heir? I think not,” she tuts, “Hurry up and go to the entrance, I have a Plague Doctor who’s gone stark raving mad and needs this cell.”

The Caregiver stands to one side, and Sarmenti wastes no time in collecting his few items and departing from the holding. There is a slight twinge of pain when he walks, though it is a far cry from the agony he felt when he first arrived in this decrepit place. The last lingering thread of pain disappears entirely and is replaced with genuine excitement when he pulls open the entrance door and finds Baldwin standing near a window. 

“You lying bastard, you said you’d visit!” 

Baldwin tilts his head, face mostly obscured by his mask but a small smile on his face.

“I tried, but the Sanitarium turned me away.” 

“Yes, they’re probably sick of you by now.” Sarmenti says, punching Baldwin softly on the arm when he walks closer. 

Sarmenti expects a gentle punch back, a friendly exchange of blows that is almost routine in their relationship. He is taken aback when Baldwin wraps an arm around him and embraces him. He stands a head taller than Sarmenti, and the side of the Jester’s face brushes against the rough fabric of his shroud. Instinctively, Sarmenti hugs back with thin arms draped over Baldwin’s shoulders and elbows jutting outwards at a strange angle to mind his lute. At the reciprocation, Baldwin hugs tighter until Sarmenti's body is flat against his own, and he squeezes a shoulder for good measure. Sarmenti rubs at his back with the palm of his hand, enjoying the sensation of muscle under layers of fabric and bandage. It feels _nice._ The embrace is warm, familiar, but Sarmenti cannot help but wonder if it is lasting a little too long to be one of pure camaraderie.

When he feels warmth seeping into his borrowed clothes and feels a heartbeat, Sarmenti has to pull away for fear that he never will. 

“It’s good to see you again.” Baldwin says, straightening himself. 

“You too,” the usual biting edge to Sarmenti’s voice is gone, replaced by something he cannot quite decipher, “I’m happy to see that you’re still a soppy idiot.” 

The atmosphere feels much heavier than it did a minute ago, as though the air had become tangible and hangs over them with an electric presence. If they were to strike a match, they would burn for a millennia. 

_“A storm,”_ Sarmenti thinks, _“The calm before a storm.”_

The Jester still smiles, but he cannot bring himself to look up to the other man as he does not know what he might find staring back at him, something that might bypass the expressionless mask. He points over to the barracks, facing away from Baldwin so he doesn’t have to meet his burning stare. 

“We should go home.” 

The tense atmosphere subsides on the walk back to the barracks, attributed to the open space and muffled talking from nearby buildings. The energy between them is not entirely quelled however, and the lack of conversation between them informs Sarmenti that whatever happened outside the Sanitarium weighs on Baldwin’s mind in the same way it weighs on his own. He distracts himself by playing with his bandages, fidgeting with the fabric through his shirt so the top of the wrappings no longer chafe against his ribs. Sarmenti is finally relieved of the chafing outside their room, but the wrappings unfurl from the lack of tautness. 

“Oh, shit.” Sarmenti curses as Baldwin unlocks the door. 

“Is everything alright?” 

Sarmenti pushes one hand against his stomach to keep the bandage in place, though most of the top layers have already uncurled from his abdomen. 

“Yeah, my bandages have come loose. Hold on.” 

Baldwin pushes open their door, and the first thing Sarmenti notices is that the air in the room smells different. The usual scent of dust, sage and whiskey is gone, and is substituted by something cleaner, something detached from both of them. 

“I had the bedding cleaned for your return, it was high time this hovel was tidied.” 

“Thoughtful.” Sarmenti grunts, still attempting to tighten his wrappings.

The room certainly looks nicer, the mounds of dust in the corner now swept away and the bedsheets no longer crumpled. Baldwin had also made a conscientious effort to order their bottles and jars upon the dresser, though they had both long forgotten what oil or comb belonged to whom. 

Sarmenti cannot give a decent critique of their lodgings, as he is still fiddling with the bandages. He curses again and lifts up his shirt, attempting to tighten bandages practically falling off him. His dressing is careless and amateur, lines of abdomen visible from gaps between the bandages and the fit is still too loose around his stomach and tight against his ribs. 

“Do you need help?” 

Baldwin’s voice is measured, as though he fears his question is patronising. He lifts his arms, showcasing the numerous bandages wrapped around them.

“I have more than enough experience.” 

Sarmenti exhales and lets his own arms fall to his sides. Being this close to Baldwin, so exposed and vulnerable is a tantalising prospect, but one still laden with the danger of rejection. It appears he has no other choice. 

“Go on, show me how.” 

Baldwin rummages through a drawer on the dresser, retrieving a roll of bandages from his own collection. Sarmenti waits on the bottom bunk, eyes focusing on the other man. Sarmenti decides that for once, he will remain silent. 

Baldwin returns with the bandages and kneels in front of the Jester. The action is akin to how he worships in the Abbey, though the Light and any semblance of God is notably absent in this room. When Sarmenti slightly parts his legs, comparing this kneeling to worship borders on sacrilege and Baldwin’s thoughts verge upon the profane. 

Sarmenti pulls his shirt over his head and Baldwin averts his gaze. There is nothing intrinsically intimate about removing an article of clothing for wound dressing, but it still causes Baldwin’s face to burn from under his mask. He stares at the expanse of skin in front of him, marked with white scars and a scattering of moles heretofore unseen. Baldwin takes hold of the top layer of bandage, pulling it off in a slow tug to not irritate the wound. It comes away easily, giving Baldwin even more pale flesh to gaze at before he redresses it. 

The wound itself is healing well; a simple line of stitching to the side of Sarmenti’s navel, black thread prominent against pale skin. Baldwin unravels the bandages and places the first layer flat against his skin before rolling the bandage over the abdomen to form the first layer. Baldwin’s hand rests on Sarmenti’s waist, keeping the bandage in place as it travels further upwards. Thankfully, Baldwin cannot feel Sarmenti’s skin through his gloves, but the sight of tanned leather grabbing at the juncture of his hip makes him bite the inside of his cheek. 

Sarmenti does not wince or complain amid the dressing, simply watching Baldwin tend to him with the presence of an omniscient God. Baldwin’s teeth chew at his bottom lip in reverent concentration, breath hot against Sarmenti’s exposed stomach. The bandages tighten, and the upper layer is torn from the bandage roll. The bandage is tucked downwards, gloved hands dipping beneath the layers of wrapping and securing the dressing with practised expertise and shaking hands. 

Sarmenti’s body slackens, but he is brought upright when two hands take hold of his waist and keep him there. Baldwin’s thumbs trace each line of bandage, searching for any exposed skin. When he is satisfied that the wound is sufficiently dressed, he leans backwards and makes the mistake of looking up to Sarmenti. 

The Jester peers down to him, cheekbones sharp and eyes searing. The corner of his lips tilt upwards, a cocky half-smile, though there is little else arrogant in the way he looks down at him. His voice, usually so satisfied and teeming with bite, wavers when he speaks.

“Hah, I was half-expecting you to kiss it better, nursemaid.” 

It is a stupid joke. Stupid in context, delivery and because it one borne from desire. A deep noise catches in Baldwin’s throat, and his mouth opens in surprise. The man stills completely and Sarmenti starts to worry if his foolish attempt at flirtacious teasing has _broken_ Baldwin. He drops his gaze back to the Jester’s bandages, teeth resting on his bottom lip and eerily silent. 

Whatever he wants to say in response clearly requires tempering, and Sarmenti waits for the inevitable disgust, confusion and questioning. 

And it does not come. 

Rather, Baldwin tilts forward and presses his lips against the top layer of bandage furthest from the wound. His hands still claim each side of Sarmenti’s waist and his mask is warm against flushed, marked skin. All Sarmenti can do is watch in stunned awe and when Baldwin pulls away, and he looks nothing short of triumphant; smiling like he has won another campaign, forged a new alliance, celebrated another jubilee. 

“I like you as well, Sarmenti.”

The electricity in the air implodes. Baldwin is pulled upwards by his shroud and caught in a deep kiss, one unrestrained in passion. He faintly feels hands through the thick fabric of his shroud, pushing him in deeper. Baldwin mimics the action, removing his own hands from Sarmenti’s waist and running them up from his back, over his neck and resting them at the base of his head. The intensity is feverish, and as much as Baldwin longs to show his affection in tenderness and romance, he cannot stop himself pressing into Sarmenti and grazing his bottom lip with his teeth and sucking until it swells.

For all of Sarmenti’s wanton singing and Baldwin’s descriptive prose, neither man can apply their lyrics into practice and only the Gods know how they must look. Both of them have a faint idea of how they appear; two grown men, one disfigured, one rumoured to be mad, wrapped in bandages, cast out from ordinary society and kissing as though they are the last two people alive. They may as well be, as whatever lies outside the sanctuary of their room disappears into nothingness.

It is just them, as it has always been.

There is nostalgia in the kiss, nostalgia for a time where there was more than violence and madness in the world, where days were not numbered and tomorrow was guaranteed. The kiss is fumbling and inept, but it contains years of isolation and months of want.

The kiss breaks when Sarmenti pulls away, instead focussing his affection on the metal of Baldwin's mask. He kisses as though it is flesh, starting at the jaw and moving upwards along the harsh line of welding. He cups his face with his hands, massaging each line of the mask with long fingers. The mask is warm against his lips, hot against his fingertips, and the skin underneath is no doubt just as heated. The thought alone spurns Sarmenti on further, and he gives a wicked flash of teeth before giving the side of the mask a broad lick, imagining the reaction he would receive if it was flesh. Baldwin shudders and catches his lips momentarily for another kiss before breaking it once more. 

“I want you.” Baldwin whispers against Sarmenti’s lips, mind utterly taken. The grin he receives in response is one of pure rapture. 

“Music to my ears.” 

The Jester envelops him into a kiss again, breaking it only to whisper fragments of every fantasy he’s ever had, almost like they are incantations.

Perhaps they are, as Baldwin ardently insists that he will fulfil every desire, completely enchanted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can probably guess what the final tarot card is at this point lmao


	5. VI. The Lovers

_“The Lovers unite beneath the gaze of a divine deity, and they are cleansed in the healing waters. They stand bare beneath the deity, accepting all aspects of themselves and of the Other. Their unity is one of complementary opposites; the subconscious and the conscious, physical desire and emotional need, strength and vulnerability.”_

_The Lovers (VI)_

Dawn breaks early in the Summer months, the horizon tinted gold and the first rays of sunlight seeping into the endless blue of the morning sky. When the sun rises, it brings forth a gentle warmth that is almost foreign amid the usual bleakness of the Hamlet. The soft heat is encompassing, invigorating all that it touches and whispering a promise of optimism, that each day could be filled with pleasantries and idle enjoyment. 

Such notions are rarities, but unhurried, blissful days can occasionally grace the residents of the Hamlet, as Baldwin is about to uncover.

The morning light streams through the slats of the window, refracted through the small cracks in the glass. As the sun continues to rise, the beams of light shift and travel cross the room, eventually settling across Baldwin’s face. The radiance stirs him from his sleep, warm against the side of his face, and Baldwin tilts his head upwards from the thinning pillow. He brings a hand over his eyes, squinting slightly when a strong stream of light glints against his golden mask atop the dresser. Baldwin smiles, the gentle glow of the room informing him that it is still too early to begin his day. 

He sinks back into the pillow, and a long arm drapes over him, the fingers grazing against his face. 

_Sarmenti._

The Jester lies on his side, face buried beneath Baldwin’s shoulder and legs entwined around Baldwin’s own. Sarmenti is still asleep, evident by the steady rise and fall of his chest, coupled with the light exhales from parted lips. He is peaceful when he sleeps, his routine absurdity and wild laughter a phantom when compared to the serenity of his slumber. Sarmenti is also a silent sleeper, a fact that is no doubt surprising to most people, given the man’s innate ability to endlessly ramble. When the tips of Sarmenti’s fingers brush against Baldwin’s temple, he wraps an arm around the man’s waist and pulls him closer to his chest, carefully minding his wound. 

As gentle and slow Baldwin attempts to be, his movements are somewhat inelegant and uncoordinated. Sarmenti awakes to the rough texture of bandage caressing his face, and a thumb pushing back a lock of hair from his face. He mirrors the stroking action with his own slender fingers, rubbing a thumb against Baldwin’s cheek and watching with half-lidded eyes as Baldwin exhales at the touch. 

“Mornin’,” Sarmenti murmurs, cheek still pressed against Baldwin’s chest, “I take it you slept well.”

“I did, thanks to you.” Baldwin whispers back, hand tracing the curve of Sarmenti’s waist, from his slim hips and upwards to his back. 

Sarmenti snorts, playfully pushing Baldwin’s head with the tips of his fingers.

“Lord. At least let me brush my teeth before you start giving me cavities.” 

“Surely that defeats the purpose?” 

Sarmenti’s eyes flicker upwards, a tired smile tugging at his lips. As much as he loathes sickeningly sweet prose, the words sound much more palatable when falling from Baldwin’s mouth, especially when they are describing him. Sarmenti had always maintained that he was nothing special; just skin, bones and dark humour, but the way Baldwin looks at him has him questioning every negative thought he had ever conceived about himself. 

There had been a time, a period of constant gloom and cast in prowling shadows, where worth was weighed in blood and introspection brought only internal hatred. But now, with Baldwin staring down at him with sunlight on his face and reverence in his eyes, Sarmenti feels twice as splendid than any pompous noble he had ever been forced to entertain. When Baldwin’s eyes trace the features of his face, Sarmenti realises it is the same expression he wears when he pens his poetry, long after he believes Sarmenti has fallen asleep. 

And despite the constructed façade of madness and indifference, Sarmenti knows Baldwin can see through the masquerade, both ivory and skin. Baldwin knows that Sarmenti burns as badly as he does. 

Perhaps the heat they feel cannot be completely attributed to the sunlight.

“You’re beautiful, Sarmenti.” 

The flippant exterior crumbles instantly.

Sarmenti grabs hold of Baldwin’s shoulder and pulls himself up, with Baldwin tightening his grip around his waist. Sarmenti catches his lips between his own and presses in, eyes squeezed shut and forehead resting upon Baldwin’s. He can feel Baldwin smiling into the kiss, his teeth delicately abrading Sarmenti’s bottom lip as though suppressing his smile from transforming into a grin. Of course, Sarmenti does not mind, as the angle allows him to lavish his own attention upon Baldwin, small kisses to his upper lip soon melting into sucking and occasional flicks of his tongue.

Baldwin shudders and slowly pulls away, only to cradle Sarmenti’s chin with his thumb and forefinger, planting chaste kisses along his jawline. The Jester’s mouth parts, and is soon followed by a hitching of breath when Baldwin kisses the pulse point on his neck, a place he has always been notoriously sensitive. Baldwin’s free hand still strokes his waist, idly running a finger over bandage and pale skin, and Sarmenti swears he can feel the sensation coursing through his spine like hot liquid. When Baldwin nips harder at his neck, he elicits a strangled cry from the Jester, and the man curls his fingers tighter into Baldwin’s broad shoulders. 

“Is this good?” Baldwin whispers into his neck, breath hot and words heavy. 

“Good?” Sarmenti stammers out, blush creeping over his face, “Flick through your parchment and find a better word, poet.”

Baldwin offers up a sheepish smile, one that is certainly not warranted. Sarmenti no romantic poet himself, but by the Light, he is certain he could fill a page with how wonderful he feels when Baldwin’s teeth scrape so gently against his jugular. He unwinds his legs from Baldwin’s calf, and straddles him, leaning back down to capture his mouth. Baldwin retracts his hands from his waist and lowers them downwards, settling them at the back of his thighs. And when these large hands ghost over the curve of his ass on their journey to his legs, Sarmenti deepens the kiss with enthused zeal. 

Baldwin is equally lost to pleasure. There is sanctuary in Sarmenti, a reprieve in each kiss. The castle keep is a mere memory now, but when Sarmenti tugs at his lips with his teeth and pants at the corner of his mouth, Baldwin can smell the breeze laden with sea salt and exotic flora. He feels younger, stronger, _handsome,_ even more so than he ever did before leprosy ravaged his face and stole his pride. 

Years of longing and adversity, shattered by a man in mildewed cloth and bells sewn onto his clothes. 

He squeezes tighter at the backs of Sarmenti’s legs, causing him to groan in surprise and break the kiss momentarily. Baldwin shuffles up into a sitting position, Sarmenti still sprawled on his lap. He pulls him in close, so that his freckled chest is parallel to his mouth. Sarmenti watches intently, face pink and chest tight, and he rolls his shoulders back to offer himself to Baldwin’s willing mouth. 

Baldwin is slow, at first. Lips barely grazing the scarred skin of Sarmenti’s chest, his face tickled by the soft hair that grows there. He stops at the centre of his chest, kissing the dip between his pectorals, before devoting his attention to the muscle itself. Sarmenti’s body is lithe and sinewy, and his chest is no exception. The pectorals of his upper body are by no means large, but they are still supple and defined. He traces the outline of the muscle with his mouth, working inwards until pockmarked lips catch against a nipple. Baldwin stops, but if the nails digging into his neck do not urge him to continue, it is Sarmenti’s breathless command of _“keep going”_ that does. 

Baldwin obliges. He sucks the nipple into his mouth, rolling it lightly between tongue and teeth. The surrounding pink flesh is also attended to, the flat of Baldwin’s tongue lapping over budded skin and flicking upwards to the nipple once more. Bandaged fingers soon follow suit, Baldwin’s thumb gliding over the other nipple, tenderly rubbing against it with a concealed thumbpad. When both tongue and thumb flick upwards in the same manner, a wanton whine rips from the depths of Sarmenti’s throat.

_“Fucking hellfire.”_

Sarmenti’s hands slip from Baldwin’s neck and return to his own body; one hand brought to his mouth and the other reaching for the front of his breeches. There is still a layer of fabric between them, but on his own abdomen Baldwin can feel Sarmenti pressed against him, hot and achingly hard. Heat rises to Baldwin’s face, eyes blown wide at the effect he has on the other man. The thought of having Sarmenti surrender to him is so very intoxicating. 

Before Baldwin can speak, there is a languid roll of Sarmenti’s hips, and he presses himself further into Baldwin’s torso with his bottom lip pulled behind teeth. Baldwin groans into his chest, and Sarmenti still has enough gall to emit a short laugh. 

“I reckon you could poke a hole through plate armour.” He chortles. 

In the pursuit of pleasing Sarmenti, Baldwin had chosen to ignore the heat settling in his stomach and the growing tightness in his linen. But now, with Sarmenti sinking into his lap and smiling down at him with a smug grin spread across his face, the erection in his breeches is far more difficult to ignore. Baldwin swallows thickly, eyes focussed on the clothed cock rubbing against taut, prominent abdominals. 

“I believe this is a case of the pot calling the kettle black, Sarmenti.” 

“I don’t know what that means, nor do I care,” comes the breathy response, “But as long as _something_ is getting poked, I’m more than content.” 

Baldwin chokes at the final statement, and Sarmenti cannot help but find the spectacle quite endearing. He has Baldwin, usually so decorous and restrained, peering up to him with his face reddened and mouth wet. Even his eyes burn with want, an unfiltered desire to claim Sarmenti on the small bunk they have decided to share. There is little power imbalance however, as Sarmenti can feel himself burning with the same intensity, and he is certain Baldwin can see, even through clouded vision. 

He kisses Baldwin again, but his hands slip from the man’s shoulders and follow the curves of his upper body, stopping at the drawstring of his trousers. Baldwin stiffens when slim fingers dip beneath the linen to massage small circles into his pelvic region. He tilts his head backwards and groans as Sarmenti moves lower, his hands eventually massaging the joint where the leg meets hip bone. The area is one of the few not wrapped in bandages, nor taken by disease, and thus remains sensitive. When Sarmenti squeezes at the muscle at the top of his thigh, the sensation manifests as erogenous, and his cock twitches in impatience. 

_“Sarmenti…”_ He groans, shuffling beneath the man atop of him. 

The Jester holds him in place when his thumbs comb through the curls and press deeper into his skin. It does little to alleviate the pleasure building, and Baldwin bucks his hips from the bed for more of the tantalising pressure. 

“Steady there,” Sarmenti says, a laugh embedded in the words, “Give me a hand with your trousers, I won’t do everything for you.”

Baldwin does as instructed, hooking his thumbs into his breeches and pulling them downwards, courtesy for the drawstring forgotten. Sarmenti’s hands join his own, and the trousers are swiftly pulled to his knees and bunched up against layers of wrappings. Sarmenti’s aroused flush burns deeper, and he curses under his breath. 

The Leper is a formidable man, his body invigorated by years of military campaigns and battles outside the Hamlet. Everything about Baldwin is intimidating and powerful; from his muscular arms and strong legs to his deep, guttural voice. Naturally, his cock is no different. It is long, ridiculously thick and jutting out from between his legs. The tip is a rosy hue, slick with precum and Sarmenti wonders how Baldwin occupies himself at night, if all it took was kissing to rile him like this. Baldwin’s hand wraps around his shaft, wrist now covered in brown curls and he looks at the pitch in Sarmenti’s trousers almost expectantly. 

Sarmenti’s own trousers are unlaced, slipping down lean legs and eventually pulled off entirely. It is exhilarating to be so free in front of the other man, so removed from hatred and disgust for oneself. Baldwin works his hand from the base of his cock to the tip, an action that would be salacious if not for the ardent expression on his face. 

“So exquisite, every inch of you.”

Sarmenti meets Baldwin’s gaze, his words sinking into his very core. The gaze is feverish, _demanding_ , and Sarmenti cannot wait any longer. He ignores his own erection, leans forward and places his hand over Baldwin’s, forcing the man to squeeze at his own cock. 

“Answer me this, Baldwin. Do you want me?” 

There is a gasp from the mounting pressure upon his cock, but then a breathless nod of affirmation. Sarmenti kisses him. 

“Wonderful answer,” he pants, “Where’s the oil you like to lather yourself in?”

“The table.” Baldwin replies, arm already pulling open the table drawer before blindly rummaging inside. His palm finally graces a jar of oil, not yet infused with healing herbs, and he retrieves it from the drawer.

Sarmenti takes it from him, and pours a portion of the oil into his hand. Baldwin watches in strange fascination as Sarmenti takes hold of his hand and coats his fingers in the oil. With his fingers sufficiently slick, Baldwin moves his hands behind Sarmenti, one cupping his cheek and the other running over the cleft of his ass. Cautiously, he presses the slick tip of his index finger against the hole, and Sarmenti groans into the crux of his elbow.

“Am I hurting you?” Baldwin stops his movements, stroking the gooseflesh cascading over Sarmenti’s skin. 

“No, you’ve just got massive fucking fingers.”

Baldwin’s fingers are, admittedly, rather thick, but the strange texture of sodden bandage provides extra width when Baldwin’s fingers alone would have sufficed. Regardless, the finger continues to explore and soon the first knuckle enters, followed by the second. He had lost most of the sensation in his hands many years ago, but he can just about feel the tight heat seeping through his wrappings and into his skin. Baldwin pushes in further in pursuit of more heat, but his fingertip grazes against a small lump and Sarmenti _whines_. 

_“Gods!_ Again, right there!”

The finger pushes out slightly, and then presses back in against the cluster of nerves. Sarmenti’s legs give way, and he sinks back further onto the finger, uttering a litany of curses so vulgar that they make Baldwin’s ears burn. The texture of the bandaged finger is quite unusual, but each unfurling snag of fabric rubs against sensitive walls and sends waves of pleasure over Sarmenti’s body. The pleasure amplifies when Baldwin prods at his hole with a second finger. 

He does not need to be told, Baldwin knows how badly he wants it.

It is a stretch, but Baldwin is a patient man. He slowly works the second finger in, gently probing the ring of muscle until his finger presses in and rubs against the first. Here, he is provided with a decent angle to fully pleasure the Jester writhing in his lap. He massages small circles into his prostate, suppressing a wild grin when Sarmenti shudders and his stomach tightens. Baldwin is unpractised in the art of carnal pleasures, so he strives to please Sarmenti as best he can, refusing to relent on his quickened pace of stroking, caressing and massaging. 

The Jester has to fight gravity that seems to want him to collapse, and each massage on his prostate sends electricity through his veins. The lust in his stomach spreads all throughout his body, but pools in his groin; desperate and hard. The desire only increases when Baldwin rotates his fingers and starts to carefully spread him open.

 _“Fuck!”_ Sarmenti sees white, and then he sees Baldwin, mouth agape and eyes wide, “Lord knows I won’t last like this.” 

“What would you have me do?” 

Sarmenti reaches for the oil lying neglected amid the sheets. He pours out more of the clear liquid and lathers it over Baldwin’s cock whilst the man simply grunts in appreciation. Baldwin sighs through his nostrils when Sarmenti gives a lengthy squeeze from shaft to tip, groaning when the motion ceases and he is instructed to hold himself in place.

Sarmenti hovers momentarily above Baldwin, legs shaking. He aligns himself with the enlarged tip, gnawing at his lip and licking his teeth in contemplation. He decides he has waited long enough and sinks down onto the wet cockhead. Sarmenti is filled to his very limits, toes curling into the bedsheets and fingernails scratching at the back of Baldwin’s neck in desperation. The other man collapses entirely, head thrown back against the pillows and murmuring inaudible prayers to himself. 

There is already a layer of sweat covering Sarmenti’s bony shoulders, and Baldwin looks thoroughly debauched. Aesthetics aside, Sarmenti catches his breath and gives a slow roll of his hips; it is akin to pure energy surging through his body. The hand on his ass grabs tighter, and a garbled moan rumbles from Baldwin’s chest. Wheezing, Sarmenti repeats the action.

Together, they design a rhythm; starting with slow, languid thrusts that soon develop into something stronger and deeper. The bunk creaks with each thrust, and the two men occasionally laugh at the noise it produces, whispering how they will explain the racket to the sleeping residents below them. 

Baldwin’s thrusts are inexpert but they carry force. Sarmenti can barely recover from one before his prostate is assaulted with another. Every jerk of Baldwin’s hips melts into one, a constant barrage of pleasure, never-ending and on course to his groin. Sarmenti is fucked with unrelenting conviction and relishes the every jolt of electricity it sends. 

Baldwin still has one hand on Sarmenti's ass, the other wrapped around his dick, gently caressing the tip and jerking with amateur enthusiasm. The Jester focuses his attention on riding, directing his hips up and down the length of the cock inside him. Sarmenti is no brothel wench, nor does he pretend to be, but Baldwin grunts like he is the most practised of lovers. 

It remains like this for a little while longer, Sarmenti bouncing on dick and Baldwin pistoning his hips into him. The warm sensation of pleasure mounts in Sarmenti’s stomach and he slowly, wonderfully starts to feel himself unwind in an upcoming climax. He laughs, as he always does, and attempts to quicken his pace. Salacious groans reverberate into the air as Sarmenti is continuously stretched open. His hands claw at the back of Baldwin’s legs as he urges him deeper inside.

Baldwin’s knees suddenly jerk upward, and the man shifts into a sitting position, so that Sarmenti is trapped between his legs and his chest. The Jester’s head collapses onto his shoulder, breath hot against his neck and hair clinging to a forehead slick with sweat. Fingers entwine in damp hair, and swollen pink lips are nipped at. 

“I want you close to me.” 

“Y-yeah...I’m here!” The new position gives Baldwin the perfect angle to brush against his prostate, and Sarmenti’s voice wavers at the touch, “Gods, I’ll be as close as you want.”

Affection blossoms once again, and Baldwin kisses Sarmenti’s shoulder. With newfound vigour, he picks up his pace, slamming into an incoherent, babbling Jester. The thrusting has deteriorated into something more shallow, but the sheer speed of which they arrive has Sarmenti internally thanking the Light for the gift of sex. His mouth is hanging open, face buried in Baldwin’s neck and the familiar pressure is building in the pit of his stomach. 

The pressure continues to ascend, aided by Baldwin’s tugs at his cock. At a particular deep thrust, Sarmenti arrives at the precipice of his climax.

“ _Oh, fucking hellfire!_ Baldwin, if you stop now, I swear I’ll kill you! Oh, fuck…!” 

A hand grabs at Baldwin’s chin, forcing him to look Sarmenti in the eyes, wild and wide-blown as they are. There is no space between them, and Sarmenti appears as a pale figure surrounded by flames of red in Baldwin’s hazy vision. He can only see his eyes, staring into his very soul.

“ _I love you._ ” The Jester says against his lips. 

Soon after the declaration, Sarmenti reaches his climax. He recites a string of nonsensical sentences, composed mainly of Baldwin’s name, the Light and profanity. His cock weeps onto Baldwin’s hand, coating his bandages in white liquid which is promptly wiped onto the bed so Baldwin can cradle him in his arms. 

Sarmenti shivers and moans, Baldwin still rocking into him with swift thrusts, wanting so badly to join him on whatever cloud he is currently riding. His body convulses under strain and the jittery movements halt as he presses himself into the Jester for the final time. His head tilts backwards as he stifles a low groan, feeling himself empty and the lower part of his body buckle from release. He squeezes his hips, drawing out his orgasm and clutches his lover closer to his chest until he can feel his heart beating. Sarmenti is too far gone to comment, and his head lolls against Baldwin as the man comes down from his high. 

They lie tangled with each other for a few moments, the early morning rays dancing across their skin. Baldwin eventually pulls out, though his grip on Sarmenti does not cease. He strokes his hair lovingly, staring absent-mindedly at the wooden slats above them. 

There’s a soft snort into his neck, and Sarmenti is already chuckling to himself.

“Go on, take the piss.” He says. 

“Whatever for?” 

“I told you I loved you. I’m the soppy bastard after all,” Sarmenti gives a tired grin and lifts his head, scars almost shining in the light, “You and your poems are safe from further degradation.”

A finger traces over the largest scar around his eye, and trails down to the jawline. Then, a gentle kiss is placed there. 

“I love you too, Sarmenti. Surely you know that by now.”

"Yeah, now I do." He smiles, settling back into the bed.

The oil is placed upon the table, and Baldwin reaches for the cotton blanket at the foot of the bed. He drapes it over them, the feeling of soft fabric against scarred skin comforting. Even more comforting is the body next to him, idly up and down his arms.

They lie together, entwined and basked in afterglow, and the world outside may cease to exist. Sarmenti’s head moves to lie on Baldwin’s chest, Baldwin’s arms wrapped around him. It is peaceful, serene. There is little use in wishing they could live this in another life, as it is the past which shapes a man. Fate may have brought them here, but the path they forged was one of their own design. 

All that there is exists in this small room, and all that there ever will be lies within it also. 

It is just them, as it always was, always is and always will be. 

The Hermit and the Fool.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had an absolute blast writing this! Thank you Carpe for the commission!  
> And thank you to everyone who stayed for the ride!


End file.
